


Signature

by TudorQueen



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TudorQueen/pseuds/TudorQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A seemingly random question from Caesar Flickerman haunts Seneca in his final moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signature

Signature  
“You’ve been head gamemaker for three years. What is your signature…?”  
For some reason, as the Peacekeepers escorted him down the halls, Seneca Crane found himself thinking about Caesar Flickerman’s final question. His signature… now likely to be his legacy. He didn’t fool himself; he was done as Head Gamemaker. He’d be lucky not to lose his life. But the President had said he liked him. Snow didn’t like many people… he might simply exile Seneca from the Capitol.  
I could handle that, he thought. I’d miss the luxuries of Capitol life, but I could live without them. I’m not without my own resources; I’m smart and skilled and quick on my feet.  
“What is your signature…?”  
He had been the youngest Head Gamemaker in twenty years or more. People respected him.  
Or feared him. And many hated him. Because he’d taken on a difficult job, one that involved pushing them hard, making their sacrifice more meaningful, and proven to be good at that. He thought of the fire that had pushed Katniss Everdeen back into the action, the muttations that provided the climax, one that had the viewers on the edge of their seats.  
He had found himself drawn to the volunteer tribute for District Twelve, drawn to her defiance, her sense of self, her own gift for improvisation. She had been one of his greatest challenges and he’d come close to bringing her down, to making her a symbol, not of rebellion, but of the inevitability of the games. She’d encouraged him to work harder, more creatively.  
And she’d humiliated him at the end. Maybe throughout the whole process. She’d refused to play the way others played, allying herself not with stronger tributes, but with vulnerable ones, like that little tree climber from District Eleven. The star-crossed lovers… had it been real or a strategy? He had to admit that he didn’t know. He’d never been in love. He was in his thirties and had never loved anyone that much, nor did he think anyone had loved him that way.  
Love? He’d been enthralled with the power, the free rein to exercise it, the technology and able people at his command. He hadn’t thought he needed anything else. But somehow… he felt his legacy would not last long, nor would he be remembered.  
The Peacekeepers let him into a room and departed without a word. He looked around – elegance, opulence, the hallmarks of Capitol life at its best. No one else was there. Had there been a mistake? He went back to the door but it was locked.  
He approached the pilaster in the middle of the room, the one holding a crystal bowl of great craftsmanship. He’d always admired artistry.  
Nightlock berries. Only a handful, but more than enough. He thought about the tribute who’d stolen and eaten some, and died, of the District Twelve tributes and their last stand. He thought of the Career who’d died from Tracker Jacker stings and the one who’d been tortured by the Muttation before the girl from Twelve had ended his life with a merciful arrow.  
“What is your signature…?”  
As he picked up the fistful of berries and brought them to his mouth, he said to himself “My signature is the ability to bestow a terrible death on children.”


End file.
